The Great Revolt Page 12

  He was distracted from his close study of the documents by a sound behind him. He turned to see Brother Paschal, the buttery clerk, standing outside with a tray of food and drink. Athelstan beckoned him in. The buttery clerk, mumbling under his breath about Blackfriars being invaded by all kinds of hungry and thirsty people, laid out the pot of ale and the platter of food.

  ‘None of it is poisoned,’ Paschal grumbled, ‘I tasted it myself.’ Athelstan thanked him absent-mindedly then called the buttery clerk back.

  ‘Paschal, last night when you helped poor Roger, did he say anything untoward?’

  Paschal glared at Flaxwith’s bailiffs, who had stolen some of the cheese from the tray, then he stood and thought awhile. ‘Ah, now I remember. Roger said he intended to work until he greeted the Matins bell. He then added, “I know what I have to do. Everyone else is looking in the wrong place.”’

  ‘Wrong place?’ Athelstan queried. ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘God only knows, and I mean that. I am just a buttery clerk trying to feed hordes of people.’

  Paschal stomped away. Athelstan ate and drank whilst he sifted through different manuscripts: the Book of the Dead at Blackfriars, a chronicle of the mother house, the history of the community, letters to and from a host of individuals. Athelstan could make no sense of the haphazard collection, so he decided to concentrate on his own investigation. He began to list all he knew about the murders of Alberic, Roger and Pernel.

  Item: Alberic had been found stabbed in his own chamber, the door locked and bolted; the weapon had been found nearby; the Italian had received his death wound savagely and swiftly. Item: Alberic was a former soldier, fairly young and robust. Surely he would have resisted – so why was there no sign of disturbance, no cry for help, nothing to indicate a struggle? Item: Master Luke the courier had approached Alberic’s chamber and overheard a conversation in Italian, with a reference made to Butrio and what was the meaning in English of ‘I dread’? Item: Alberic, by his own remarks to Master Luke, fully accepted the story that Edward had escaped from Berkeley. Could that be why he was murdered? Item: in the end, how did Alberic’s assassin get in and out of a locked, barred chamber?

  Athelstan paused and thought of all those caught up in this matter. Could he imagine Prior Anselm, Brothers Hugh, Matthias and John attacking Alberic so easily? That was a nonsense, surely. All of Athelstan’s colleagues were fairly wiry but they were old; they were certainly not like the street fighters Athelstan had encountered in the city. The friar shook his head, picked up his quill pen and continued. Item: Alberic’s murder. The how, the why and the who were shrouded in mystery. No member of the Blackfriars community was capable of such an assault. So was it someone else? Was Alberic’s killer among his own kind, Fieschi and his companions? After all, according to Master Luke, the conversation in Alberic’s chamber was in Italian. Or perhaps the royal courier himself? He was certainly strong and agile enough to perpetrate such an assault, but what would be the motive? For whom did Master Luke really work – the King or Gaunt? Did the regent have a hand in all this mischief, he and his malevolent shadow Thibault?

  Athelstan paused and recalled young Isabella’s nurse, a fairly young, wiry woman. She or someone else in Blackfriars could be Gaunt’s assassin. But why blame Gaunt? Men such as Tyler were ruthless enough. Did the Upright Men, for their own secret reasons, have a hand in this murderous mayhem? Item: why were the attacks launched against him in the tower and the friary church? How was he, a simple parish priest, involved in the mystery of Edward II’s death over fifty years ago?

  Athelstan paused to look at what he had written and blew his cheeks out. Some of his conjectures didn’t make sense. If the assassin was Gaunt or Thibault’s creature, surely Athelstan being wounded or even killed would diminish young Isabella’s protection? This in turn prompted a fresh question: was the real reason for those murderous assaults on him due to someone bent on inflicting a grievous blow against Thibault through his beloved daughter Isabella? If Athelstan was removed as her protector, the young girl would certainly become more vulnerable. The friar shook his head and decided to move on.

  Item: Roger’s death. The chronicler had undoubtedly been poisoned. Most noxious potions acted swiftly, yet Roger had returned to his chamber hale and hearty. The chronicler loved to dig up facts and evidence and draw his own conclusions. Apparently on the night he died, Roger was determined to do this, but about what? Why did he say ‘they’ (whoever they might be) were looking in the wrong place? What did this mean? Item: how was Roger actually poisoned? He had left the meeting and gone to the kitchen for wine and a bowl of nuts. Paschal the buttery clerk had brought them here for him. All the evidence indicated that neither food nor drink were tainted. The only people who had access to it were Roger himself and Paschal, who was innocent in this matter. No other source of poison could be traced in the chamber, so how was it administered? Did Roger receive a visitor? Brother John, working in the cloisters, reported seeing no one. If someone did visit the chronicler and brought poison into the room, again, how was it administered? Surely it must have been quick acting? So how did the assassin leave, locking and bolting the chamber from the inside? Athelstan scratched his chin. He couldn’t imagine someone turning up for such a brief visit and offering poisoned food or wine when Roger already had what he needed. Any attempt to taint Roger’s goblet and mazer would surely have been noticed by the sharp-eyed chronicler and traces would have been left of this, but there had been nothing.

  Item: Pernel, a mad old Fleming who dyed her hair and talked incessantly to herself like some beldame cursed by the moon, a poor soul floating through the life of the parish like mist above the moor. Had this simply been a pretence, a mask against the world? Pernel had certainly been lucid enough to realise the mysterious abduction of her parishioners would be of great concern to her priest, and she had the wit to organise herself sufficiently – the hire of a barge to cross the Blackfriars quayside – but then what? Was Pernel’s death a mere accident, stumbling or staggering along that quayside, shoved and pushed by others who would have no time for a witless old woman? Had Pernel been drinking – she certainly loved her pottle of ale – or was it murder? Was her death an act of the deepest malice? Athelstan was tempted to reject such a proposal out of hand if it had not been for what he’d found in Pernel’s cottage: a link with the Order of the Poor Clares and those medals from different churches in Flanders and Hainault, and, more significantly, from the abbey of Sancto Alberto di Butrio in Northern Italy, a place caught up in the saga of the mystery surrounding Edward II. Had Pernel been a nun or a novice in the Poor Clares? Was she then known as Agnes? And where was the convent of St Monica?

  Athelstan turned back to sifting through the manuscripts collected by Roger, the various proclamations of men long dead, listing the names of the Dunheved coven. He could find no trace of an ‘Agnes’ or any mention of the Order of Poor Clares, yet all this was part of the spate of murders. Athelstan experienced a feeling of fear and dread. Sin, God’s executioner, lurked in the shadows of Blackfriars. He never thought such a place of prayer could become the refuge of demons, and yet it had. Athelstan recalled a travelling minstrel who used to visit his parents’ farmstead. The jongleur talked vividly about a veritable camp royal of demons lurking in the woods nearby. The minstrel, in one of his tales, also described murder as a loathsome serpent, a fire dragon, fierce and mottled with fury. Athelstan put down his quill pen. Somewhere, he reflected, here in Blackfriars, that serpent lay coiled, ready to strike again.

  Athelstan decided to take some respite and dozed for a while. Benedicta came and woke him to say goodbye. She explained that Father Prior had used her for a certain task, and as a thank you had arranged for the friary bargeman to take her across to Southwark. Once there she would ensure the church and priest’s house were safe. Athelstan absent-mindedly heard her out and kissed her on each cheek, muttering at her to keep safe, then she was gone before he realised it. A short while late
r Prior Anselm greeted Flaxwith’s bailiffs and slipped like a shadow into the chamber.

  ‘A fruitful search, Athelstan?’

  ‘No, Father Prior, not yet.’

  ‘Then I have a guest you must meet. No, no, you must come. No one else knows about him.’

  Now fully awake and intrigued, Athelstan followed his prior out along the passageways and into the enclosure known as the petty cloisters. A pentile ran around all four sides, protection from the rain and shading against the summer sun which now bathed the cloister garth in brilliant light. At the centre of the garth rose an exquisitely sculptured fountain carved in the shape of a pelican striking its breast. The water gushed out through the pelican’s open beak into a huge bowl beneath, brimming to the full, so the lily pads on the surface moved in a constant slow dance. On a bench close to the fountain sat an old man dressed in the brown and cream robes of the Carmelite order. He sat resting his hands on a walking stick, but when he saw Prior Anselm approach, he insisted on clambering to his feet. He exchanged the kiss of peace with Athelstan then sat down on the bench beside him.

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Prior Anselm declared, his voice scarce above a whisper, ‘this is Odo Brecon, a man who might be able to help you. Someone from times past, but his wits are sharp and his memory even keener.’ Athelstan gazed at the old man with the rheumy, light-blue eyes of the very old. He had a stubbled, rather inflamed face; his meagre white hair stood up like quills; his dark spotted hands were vein streaked.

  ‘Brother Odo?’

  ‘No, my learned Dominican.’ Odo’s lips parted in a gummy smile. ‘True, I am garbed like a Carmelite but I am a lay person. I have a corrody, a pension at nearby Whitefriars, a gift from the present king’s grandfather.’ Athelstan nodded understandingly. The crown often rewarded its long-serving faithful retainers with comfortable lodgings for life in some religious house. He recalled at least three old soldiers at Blackfriars, whilst two of his kinsmen lodged in the beautiful abbey of Glastonbury.

  ‘I am pleased for you,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And what was your service to the crown?’

  ‘Let me explain.’ Anselm crouched down before both of them. ‘Nobody here knows who Odo truly is or why he has kindly agreed to visit Blackfriars. Two Carmelites escorted him here and they will return within the hour. Those watchers outside our gate, the screed of Earthworms, allowed them safe passage through.’

  ‘Ruffians, rifflers, chaff in the wind,’ Odo scoffed. ‘In my green and supple days …’ He paused as the prior raised his hand.

  ‘Odo Brecon,’ Anselm explained, ‘was a captain of hobelars. He once served in the retinue of Hugh Despenser, favourite of Edward II. When that king was deposed and imprisoned at Berkeley, Despenser was barbarously executed at Hereford. Odo, of course, fell from grace. He became a wanted man.’

  ‘I had taken an oath of allegiance to Lord Hugh and the king, God bless them.’ The old man’s mouth jutted stubbornly.

  ‘Odo,’ Anselm continued, ‘was swept up in the conspiracy to free the imprisoned king. He was a member of Denheved’s coven. He actually fought alongside him …’

  The prior smiled at Athelstan’s surprise.

  ‘I didn’t think,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I mean, that someone would—’

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Odo tapped his stick noisily on the ground, ‘believe me, I have seen the days and I have supped with all the demons.’ Athelstan looked at Anselm.

  ‘How did you …?’

  ‘Poor Roger’s work, not mine. He has been immersed in the mystery of Edward II’s captivity since the arrival of our Italian brethren. Well, to be truthful, even long before that. In preparation for their arrival the royal chancery despatched the relevant records of 1327 to 1330 to be stored in our library at Blackfriars. Well, you know Roger, he was attracted to such archives as a cat to cream. I don’t think there was one he didn’t read. Anyway,’ Prior Anselm got to his feet, ‘when he came across the name Odo Brecon, not only did he recognise it, but he knew where our good friend actually lived.’

  ‘Of course,’ Athelstan whispered, smiling at Odo. ‘Brother Roger was always on the best of terms with the librarian and chroniclers at Whitefriars. They were constantly exchanging gossip.’

  ‘More than that,’ Odo intervened. ‘I met Brother Roger. He visited me at Whitefriars to ask about the attack on Berkeley Castle.’ The old man squinted up at Anselm. ‘But why all the secrecy?’

  ‘Something dreadful is happening here, Odo,’ Anselm said. ‘It’s best for the moment if I don’t tell you. What I would like you to do is share everything you know about the fate of Edward II with my good colleague here. Athelstan,’ Anselm continued, ‘as I said, nobody here knows about Odo Brecon. I asked Benedicta to take a message to Whitefriars. I informed the guardian there that she would greet Odo at the gate at a specific time. I admitted him and brought him directly here. Once the two Carmelites have returned, please escort our friend back to the gate and make your farewells.’ Anselm sketched a blessing and left them.

  Athelstan stared around the petty cloisters, revelling in the warm, scented air.

  ‘I am ready,’ Odo murmured.

  ‘Have you told your tale to anyone else apart from Brother Roger?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Odo tapped the side of his fleshy nose. ‘Certain secrets are best kept secret. Brother Roger only found out about me when he searched the records. Remember, Athelstan, I am only known as Brother Odo in our community; it is very rare that I give my full birth name. Roger knew mine and recognised it on a warrant issued by the Crown.’

  ‘So tell me your story.’

  ‘I was a henchman of Despenser, a good lord, though, looking back, he was just one slaughter wolf amongst the rest; a glutton for other men’s blood as a crow is to carrion, a despoiler of dark design. Despenser dominated the King and eventually alienated Queen Isabella, who fled to France and into the arms of another blood-drinker, Roger Mortimer. In my view, they richly deserved each other. In the autumn of 1326 they invaded England.’ Odo shrugged. ‘You know the story. Edward was captured and imprisoned, Despenser was taken to Hereford. He was executed on a specially built gallows, fifty foot high. Half hanged, castrated, his entrails plucked out and burnt before his eyes, his body quartered, his severed head paraded through Cheapside before being poled on London Bridge.’

  He paused to collect his thoughts. ‘I was Despenser’s man in peace and war. A liveried retainer. I could expect no mercy. Isabella was a she-wolf leading a slavering pack, a coven of great lords and bishops who detested Despenser and anyone associated with him. I was proclaimed an outlaw and had no choice but to flee into the wet, green mansions of the Forest of Dean, which was the closest and the safest place to where my imprisoned royal master was being held. In time others joined us. We lived in the soaking darkness of the trees. A close, secretive place even during the brightest noon time. Once the sun set you could well believe why the night is the devil’s black book, the nurse of cares, the mother of despair and the daughter of Hell.’

  ‘And the Dunheveds?’ Athelstan tactfully intervened.

  ‘Oh, they changed it all.’

  ‘What were they like?’

  ‘I knew them from the heady days of court. Thomas, the elder, had been the King’s confessor despatched to the Pope to see if the King’s marriage to Isabella could be annulled. During his absence Edward was deposed. Thomas was totally devoted to his royal master, fanatical in his loyalty.’

  ‘How old was he then?’

  ‘He had taken his solemn vows at seventeen. An erudite scholar, he was marked down for high office in your order but he attracted the attention of the King. Thomas was the sort of man Edward II liked. Very similar to Peter Gaveston, the long dead but not forgotten royal favourite. Thomas was quick-witted, good-humoured. He could charm the birds from the branches and the rabbits from their warren. He was kind, affectionate, honourable but, when threatened or in danger, totally and utterly ruthless. He was a Dominican in the true sense of the w
ord.’ Odo winked at Athelstan. ‘A hound of God. He could move in the splendour of Sheen palace but he could also preach a powerful sermon to peasants gathered around their village cross. Thomas must have been in his early twenties when Edward II was deposed. I believe he was also skilled in arms, a sharp-eyed archer and good as the next man when it came to dagger or sword play. Above all, Edward II was his king and master. Thomas passionately believed that once a prince was anointed with holy chrism he was king until he died. Thomas composed a little verse, in which he called himself “Keeper of the royal flame, defender of the King’s name.”’

  ‘And his brother, Stephen?’

  ‘A little younger than Thomas. In a word, he was his elder brother’s shadow. Where Thomas went, Stephen faithfully followed, be it the Dominican Order, the court—’

  ‘And eventually the Forest of Dean?’

  ‘Oh yes. The Dunheved brothers swept in like a summer storm, drawing in all the adherents of the deposed king: former scholars, clerks, priests, soldiers. In turn these attracted royal spies, Mortimer’s creatures. Thomas Dunheved dealt harshly with those we unmasked and caught.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Thomas hanged and disembowelled them and left their steaming remains at crossroads. Of course, Mortimer and his ilk struck back. They sent soldiers and expert huntsmen into the forest …’ Odo paused as Athelstan raised a hand.

  ‘My friend,’ Athelstan leaned closer, ‘I must be truthful. The mystery of Edward II’s fate does not concern me as much as it might you. Nor am I trying to establish whether Edward II escaped or not.’